You smell good
by Averse
Summary: Smooth. That's the only word to describe Luke after a sick Lorelai spends an afternoon sleeping in his bed. Of course she's gone before he goes up there, but many thoughts lead to many discoveries.


Luke grimaced, and grudgingly lead Lorelai up the stairs to his above-diner appartment. She had apparently had a horrible day at the inn, and claimed sick. She also claimed that in her state of slight delirium, she had locked herself out of the house, yet needed to rest. So, Luke was lending her his bed for the afternoon. He had to admit, she didn't look her best. Her hair was less than artful, her clothes unmatching and disheveled, almost seeming that she had put them on sideways. Her face was flushed; eyes unfocused. The lack of sparkle in the blue optics had swayed him, and in a weak moment, he was leading her upstairs. 

Since the town had already unanimously decided that he and Lorelai were hopelessly in denial of their 'unrequited love' for eachother, he normally would have been worried about the uprise in gossip. After all: Luke taking Lorelai into his appartment? Suspicious to the eightieth power. Sighing as he shoved open the door, he extended an arm, showing her in. She stood unsurely in the doorway for a few minutes, swaying slightly with the instability of illness before entering. Pointing to the bedroom in the back, Luke clasped his hands together, struggling over what to say. He was prone to making things come out wrong. Especially with Lorelai. 

"Thanks, Luke. I owe you." She muttered jadedly, squeezing his hand companionably and heading towards the bed. Luke smiled back, muttering a response before hurrying out of the room. It was undoubtably too much. He had always dreamt of Lorelai Gilmore in his bed. He smirked as he walked downstairs, getting several 'whoo!'s and kissing noises from the customer's who obviously misinterperated his actions and smug grin. Rolling his eyes and readjusting his baseball cap, his brows knitted together in irritation. 

"There is nothing going on! She's sick, she's tired, there's no key and Rory's at college. The bed's upstairs, I havea key and no child. She's sleeping, and I'm cooking." Luke ranted quickly, firmly, in typical 'it may make sense in your mind, but everyone else is outside' Luke Danes fashion. Tossing a dish towel over his shoulder, he went into the kitchen, busying himself flipping burgers. "I need to move." He muttered under his breath as he worked, unable to focus completely. The image of black hair and milky skin against his flannel bedding made him almost jittery as he cooked, causing several less than happy customers. 

Five hours later, after Lorelai had thanked him and left, and after the diner was closed, Luke was walking towards his bed in his--go figure--plaid pajamas. Flopping down, he sighed heavily, inhaling deeply. It still smelt of her. Luke was suddenly glad he hadn't cooked upstairs tonight; the intoxicating fregrance would have been overpowered. He flopped over, face down in the pillow with his lights out, just breathing, a dreamy smile on his face. Closing his eyes, he surrounded himself in blankets despite the warm temperature, realizing they too held her scent. 

She smelt strongly of coffee, but that he knew. Coffee and doughnuts and some kind of flowery perfume; of fancy foods prepared by Sookie and of the pop tarts he knew she ate before coming to the diner and eating a doughnut or four. But those were merely the obvious scents. The ones that could settle on anyone. There was more to the smell of Lorelai than that; things that only he would ever notice. She smelt of the first December snow that she so loved, of falling flakes and snowball fights, sledding and snowsuits. The aroma that warmed a home with a fire place could be found, too, though not literally. Fireplaces smelt of ashes and soot, of smoke, and the homey feel was merely in appearence. But she _smelt_ of the homyness, the comforting, licking flames of a fire as the smoke tickled chilled fingers. 

Luke sighed again, pulling the blanket up to his cheek, rubbing it against the stubly skin, face still buried in the pillow. He smelt her hair product, and as his free hand ran over the fabric, he felt the remnants of some kind of makeup marring the sham, felt the gel-like substance rub off on his hands. It was almost childish, the way he held so tightly onto all that reminisced of her. But that was all he had. He couldn't wrap her in his arms, and hold her to his chest. He couldn't burry his face in her mass of black curls; he couldn't touch her. 

She was Lorelai. Untouchable, wonderful, Lorelai. 

The next day, Luke went downstairs, whistiling a tune. He stopped quickly when he saw the customers faces: _Way to kill suspicion, Danes._ With a roll of his blue eyes, he grabbed the coffee pot habitually, glad to see that Lorelai was at the counter as always, seeming as chipper as ever. The feverish glaze was gone from her sparkling blue eyes, and her heat reddened face was back to its normal milky complexion. Pouring the thick, syrupy liquid into her mug, he stood in front of her, a small smile on his mouth. 

"Feeling better?" 

"Yeah, thanks for the bed." Lorelai winked jokingly, patting his arm so that she was sure the entire diner saw. Which caused a collective 'I told you so.' Luke smirked, rolling his eyes. He leaned forward under the pretense of giving her a bit more coffee, but he just wanted to see: did she really smel like that? She did. He bit back a smile, turning away from her to replace the coffee pot. He did this very slowly, sure that there was some kind of goofy grin on his face, some kind of dead give away expression that would reveal that the town's suspicions were entirely correct. He had fallen hopelessly in love with Lorelai a long time ago. 

He managed to draw out the process and do other chores until she was ready to leave. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she got up to walk away. Watching, as she slung her purse over her shoulder. Watching, watching. He dropped his spatula suddenly, taking a few hesitant steps, before almost hurrying to catch her before she walked out the door. Grabbing her arm to stop her, she turned to his patiently, the cute smile that sent his heart beating a mile a minute on her face. She tilted her head, tucking a cell phone in her pocket. 

"What, Luke?" 

"Uh, er...You..." He fumbled over the words, realizing he hadn't a clue what he planned to say. Sighing quietly, causing an inhale, he caught her intoxicating scent. The snow; the fire; the coffee and the food, all mixing together and making him weak at the knees. The flashback of yesterday's mental image of her in his bed wasn't helping. "You smell good." _Smooth_. 

"Are you trying to tell me you're gay, in a not so subtle way?" Lorelai quipped in her usual fashion, quirking an eyebrow. She opened her mouth to speak again, but before another word could be uttered Luke leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on her lips, causing her to quickly shut her mouth again. Her eyes fluttered shut as he leaned in a second time, and she met him halfway. Sweet, slow, tender. A first kiss to be remembered for sure. "I guess that answers my question." She muttered after the parted. 

Luke laughed quietly, stroking the side of her face gently. He had reached out and grabbed the untouchable. Walking through fire without a burn; he had done the impossible. He met her blue-eyes gaze, his grin widening slowly. Her hands was clasped onto his, fingers entwined. She bit her lip modestly, which he felt was just a way of driving him mad. Leaning forward, he kissed her again, the third one of the morning quickly deepening. Quickly, suddenly, Lorelai pulled away from his embrace, smirking. He didn't understand; he just wanted her in his arms now and forever. 

"Not in front of the kiddies." She murmured, kissing him quickly on the cheek before hurrying out the door into the crowd of 'we knew it' and 'I told you so' looks. Luke watched her walk away, expression slightly disoriented as he watched her hips sway, the bounce in her step. He could believe it. He just couldn't believe it. Adjusting his slightly off-kilter cap incredeously, he turned back to the kitchen, ignoring the quiet gossiping going on at each table. These people were like gnats, buzzing and buzzing until you were off the deep end. Rolling his eyes, he went back to work, occasionally sniffing his red flannel shirt. 

Apparently her scent was transferable. 


End file.
